


Iron and Salt

by youremyqueen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Drunkenness, F/M, Femdom, Incest, Kink Meme, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-22
Updated: 2012-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:13:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youremyqueen/pseuds/youremyqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He may be ironborn, but he's iron no longer.</p>
<p>Written for the game of thrones kink meme, prompt was: femdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iron and Salt

He puffs himself up when he walks into the feast. It's in the straight set of his shoulders - taut with anxiety rather than regality - and the plain black dress shirt he changes into because father didn't like the gold. Personally, she prefers him in satins and silks. Not only do they fit him, landlocked and frail as he is, stumbling drunkenly after so few pints of ale, but she suspects they'd make a terribly satisfying sound when she rips them off of him.

As it is, his leathers don't tear quite so easily and she hasn't the patience to work harder at them. His shirt is haphazard but still more or less on when she moves down to the laces of his trousers, forgoing the top half altogether for now. His brow creases in confusion as his drink-addled mind tries valiantly to figure out what she's doing, even as her knuckle brushes over his clothed cock and his hips jerk forward in a desperate, unsteady rhythm.

Once she gets the laces completely undone, he seems to come to the conclusion that something is definitely happening, but from the helpless, confused little pants, it's clear to her he hasn't settled on exactly _what_. His breath comes in gasps and his fingers grip the edge of the bed for what must be purchase, but she makes sure he finds none. Just as her hand snakes in to grip his cock, fierce and unyieldingly, she moves her lips to the curve of his throat and sucks a harsh mark into his pale, pristine skin.

He groans, half his body trying to wriggle away even as he continues to grind into her hand. She drags her tongue through the salty sweat on his neck, along his jawline, until she reaches his ear, then whispers, "There, there, Theon," voice low and smothered in a thick layer of filth, "stop squirming like that. You'll ruin your shirt."

She watches him attempt to clamp down on a whimper that slips out anyway, and chuckles.

He murmurs something into her shoulder that ends with, "my sister," and she doesn't really need know the rest to know what to say to that, how to stroke his hair and calm him. She wraps her fingers through a handful of strands, whispering, "Shhhh," into his jawline. She strokes his cock again and this time he can't hold back a moan.

It's just like turning the wheel of a ship.

"I've got you," she says, positioning herself in his lap, and he trembles when she sinks down onto him.

He falls helplessly onto his elbows, head tipping back, face looking immeasurably pained and pleasured at once. "No, you don't," he grits out.

She smirks, because he's really trying the best that he can. Dressing up how he thinks he ought, standing stiff and stern like he thinks it will win him a throne - it makes her miss the smiles of their childhood, ridiculous and ill-timed as they always were. He's different from how he was then, different from her, but she doesn't truly mind all that much. He may be ironborn, but he's iron no longer. Just a sulking, smiling, _whimpering_ little thing.

Asha rolls her hips once more and Theon comes underneath her, body quaking beautifully. 

"Yes," she says, "I do."


End file.
